Kinked (Elder Races, #6)(16)

“Go on, tell me how you really feel,” Alex said. “Don’t hold back.”

Quentin refused to smile. “As far as I’m concerned, he does only two things right. He makes Pia happy, and he loves Liam. Okay, maybe three things. I used to think the feudal system in the Wyr hierarchy was bullshit, but—it works.”

The other man drove quickly and competently, weaving through the slower vehicles. “And don’t forget, you were also glad he mustered the Wyr to go to Lirithriel.”

“Yeah, but I question his motives,” Quentin growled. “He may have done the right thing, but not for the right reasons.”

“There’s no way you can possibly know that,” Alex countered. “I’m more of a behaviorist. Dragos did the right thing. Period. That’s what counts. You can have all the right reasons in the world. They don’t mean shit, my friend, if what you do causes harm.”

Alex didn’t know anything about Quentin’s involvement in last year’s events. The other sentinel had spoken in his typical easygoing manner, but still his words punched Quentin in the gut. “There is that,” he said bleakly.

Despite rush hour, they made good time getting to JFK. Still, if Quentin had been a normal passenger, he would have been in trouble trying to make the flight. Because of his sentinel status, he would be able to expedite his trip through the security lines.

Alex pulled to a stop at the passenger drop-off curb and clapped him on the shoulder. “Have a safe trip, and as much as she makes you crazy, don’t kill each other. You’re both sentinels for a reason, you know, and we need you.”

Quentin grasped the other man’s shoulder briefly. “You and I have only known each other for a couple of months, but I already owe you many drinks for the times you’ve talked me down.”

Alex raised his eyebrows with that trademark smile of his that already charmed so many females and was fast becoming famous in the Wyr demesne. “Good thing you own a bar, huh?”

He laughed. “I guess it is. Catch you later.”

A flight attendant closed the door as he boarded the plane. Another one lit up when she saw him. She purred, “Let me show you to your seat.”

Oh please God, not another sex kitten. There was a time when he would have taken advantage of that purred invitation in her voice, but there were winsome, flirtatious sex kittens everywhere he looked, and they all had so many emotional needs.

“That’s all right, thanks,” he told her. “You’re busy.”

Her face fell as he turned away, but it was for the best. He had no interest and he didn’t have anything to give her. As he looked for his seat, he kept an eye out for Aryal. The flight from JFK to Prague was nine hours long. With any luck, they would be in opposite parts of the plane.

But his damnable luck had been running against him all day. He scented Aryal before he caught sight of her. She slouched in her window seat, chewing gum while she flipped through a magazine. She wore the evidence of her flight. Her hair was tangled as usual, and that high color burned again underneath her normally pale skin, glowing like a flame lit from within. Her feminine scent bore a clean, sharp freshness, like she had captured a slice of the wild March wind and brought it with her.

The seat beside her was empty.

It was his seat.

Of course it was.

He looked around at the large, packed plane. It was filled with mostly human passengers, although he caught sight of one or two of the Elder Races dotted throughout the cabin. No other visible Wyr. There wasn’t another empty seat anywhere in sight.

Of course there wasn’t.

He looked down at the person who occupied the aisle seat. A young teenage boy, maybe thirteen years old, sat hunched over an electronic game.

“Hi,” Quentin said to him.

The boy grunted but didn’t look up.

“I’ll give you a hundred dollars if I can have the aisle seat,” Quentin said.

That brought the boy’s head up. As he opened his mouth, a woman from across the aisle snapped, “You’ll do no such thing. Robert, ignore that man. Never take money from strangers.”

“But mom,” the kid said as he blinked up at Quentin. “It’s a hundred dollars and it’s just an aisle seat.”

“Get over here! Change places with me.” Quentin rubbed the bridge of his nose, watching as the boy got up. Resignedly, he shoved his pack into an overhead compartment, slipped out of his jacket and stuffed it underneath the seat in front of his, then he slid into the middle seat, buckled himself in and crossed his arms.

He was over six feet tall. Aryal was just a few inches shorter than he was. Together they were packed in like sardines, their arms, hips and thighs touching. Her heat and energy washed over him, sharp like vodka straight from the freezer but hot like mulled whiskey.

“Before you say a word to me, shut up,” she muttered out of the side of her mouth. “If I have to look at you, I’m going to punch you.”

God, yes. Adrenaline flooded his system. He was ready and itching for the fight, but there was nowhere to take it. If they started to brawl here, they might blow out the side of the plane and take everyone else aboard down with them.

On his right side, the mother of the teenage boy heaved herself into the aisle seat and glared at him. He said, “It was just a hundred dollars, and just the aisle seat.”